


At the end of the day

by sciencemyfiction



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Gen, spoilers through episode 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencemyfiction/pseuds/sciencemyfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Dorian solve a case that's not very rewarding to solve, and have a kind of bad day. Written for Meekobits, to accompany <a href="http://meekobits.tumblr.com/post/75730175592/i-hope-that-soon-youll-let-me-hold-you-like">this picture on tumblr.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	At the end of the day

John asks, apropos of nothing as they’re driving out to the scene of a grisly murder, “Do you dream?”

It’s bait; Dorian doesn’t rise to it, smiles instead into the window where he leans his face, parsing the buildings and layout of the land they pass by. This is midtown, soon they will be exiting the city proper. Their homicide occurred in a country club that is literally out in the country. Rich humans are bemoaning the waste of an elderly man’s life, perhaps unaware or uncaring of the fact that he has priors on his record; child prostitution rings were owned by this man whose corpse they will see, and he was implicated in human trafficking, back before robotic companions became cheap and easy to make, rapid production putting money into the old man’s pocket faster than the underfed children he’d stolen from their parents ever could have. Dorian has a very low opinion of their victim. John hasn’t said what he thinks one way or the other.

The media is covering it as a tragedy. The only tragedy in Dorian’s opinion is that the killer has thrown his life away. He’ll be dead or in prison when this is over. John is very good at his job. So is Dorian.

"Do you dream about going on vacation, or weird stuff you can’t explain? Memories from before you were re-activated?"

"You really want to know," Dorian deduces, and he is actually surprised. John scowls at him like he’s stupid. It’s one of John’s several hundred variations on that expression, and about as threatening as all its kindred. "What brought this on? Interesting dreams this morning, John?"

Suddenly, John is not looking at Dorian anymore, in that fascinated way he does sometimes when he forgets that Dorian can perceive him doing it. John likes Dorian’s blue circuitry, the way it flashes in his cheeks. Dorian likes the way John’s blood flushes his face, too, the way his veins pulse a little, a constant reminder that he is still alive. Dorian is often preoccupied with the uncertainty of death and his own distaste for it. He likes the little reminders that if— when it comes— he will know.

"Am I right?" Dorian smiles, trying to guess what John may have dreamed about. "Was it about Detective Stahl?" He modulates his voice to imitate the exact timbre of Victoria Stahl’s, despite the fact that John’s told him not to at least three times before. "John, I know this is completely out of character for me, but I want you to join me in bed."

"Shut up!" John barks, laughing.

The crime scene’s mess is less of a laughing matter when they arrive; the killer has run, left DNA evidence and a green jacket. Apparently he was one of the children recorded as sold by their victim. The killer doesn’t have a name in the system, comes from over the wall. The deceased, however, is Mr. Kingsworth. Hell of a name, John says under his breath, contemptuous.

The jacket has a little paper in its pocket with a list. Kingsworth is the first on the list. Dorian examines the other names and finds several that have old business dealings with Kingsworth, as well as some unknowns. Their killer, who had fled on foot, is confirmed to have stolen a car. The civilians he stole it from describe him as about two meters tall, haggard, black hair in a long ponytail, no hair on his brown face.

They sweep the city for him, find a picture from a traffic cam, and publicize it. Their killer is sloppy and desperate and poor and alone. The other teams deployed at his likely victims’ homes catch up before John and Dorian do. He’s in custody by the evening.

This isn’t like the cases that Dorian has been enjoying so much, this isn’t like the hostages in the office building who wrapped their arms around John and radiated gratitude, this isn’t getting to give a small (but hopefully meaningful) gift to Maya at the end of the day, knowing that they won the case and she finally gets the peace she’s sought, of speaking with her parents. This isn’t even the simplicity of anger, low charge, John’s life in danger, the bomb, the kill-switch, and pushing through until his battery was dead but the bomber was defused.

Dorian is dissatisfied and restless. John is angry, sulks at his desk until Captain Maldonado dismisses them both, tells them to go home.

They’re silent out to the car, silent for the first three miles, and then Dorian says, tightly, “I’m not going to Rudy’s.”

"Like hell you aren’t," John snaps back, glaring over for a second and then catching himself, gritting his teeth. "Look, you can’t recharge at my place, there’s nothing set up for it."

"I can get a charge off the stand you use for your leg."

Given John’s absolutely thunderstruck expression, this has never occurred to him. Dorian is still too bitter to be smug. John doesn’t change trajectory, but his bearing seems to be the slums by the Wall, which means noodles and cheap rice wine.

"Isn’t there anything we can do about this?"

John’s hands are tight on the wheel, his eyes are narrow and tired. “Not a damn thing.”

They drive in silence to the noodle restaurant-slash-bar. John drinks and doesn’t eat. Dorian doesn’t do either, but he listens to John snarl about diplomatic immunity, about privilege and wealth, about profiteering off of first the children like their in-custody suspect and then off of the bots, off of Dorian and others like him. He cuts John off when John starts slurring his words and losing his ability to grip his glass with any strength. 

Dorian siphons the money out of John’s account to cover John’s moderately alarming tab, then carries him to the men’s room first to puke it out. John doesn’t disappoint. He pukes until his eyes are red and running and his mouth is twisted in a frown that trembles. His breath comes in a ragged growl.

"Dorian," he mumbles, already starting to clear up, though his dizziness hasn’t improved. "Dorian, I’m runnin’ hot."

"What?" Dorian crouches down, not understanding, not anticipating John’s hands grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. "John, what’s the matter?"

He worries, checks to see if maybe John was drugged, but the only traces he finds in the vomit they haven’t flushed yet are of liquor and stomach acid, half-digested food. John pushes Dorian’s left hand down to John’s right leg, right at the seam where it seals to the prosthetic, and Dorian lingers there, palm hovering a centimeter above John’s jeans. “Disconnect it for me, wouldja?”

"Is it malfunctioning?" Dorian is concerned, scans in case the overheating synthetic-ware is reaching temperatures that could burn John where they are connected. The temperature is uncomfortable, at nearly forty-three celsius, but it’s not dangerous yet, thankfully. He keys the controls, feels along the seam to help disconnect prosthesis from body once it’s shut down through John’s jeans, popping the leg out and pulling it free of the fabric to help keep the heated hardware from connecting with John again. He sets it down on the ground beside where they’re sitting, and tries to meet John’s eyes. They’re bleary, but they focus. "John, what was happening? Is that normal, that overheating?"

"Kinda," John groans, rubbing at his face now with his free hand, the other still clutched tight in Dorian’s shirt for balance. Dorian holds carefully still, slowly lifts a hand to support John’s back, keeping the other over John’s leg. "Happens after about twelve hours, I usually take a break to get it to cool back off. Didn’t think to do it today."

"Well, I think that’s pretty reasonable." Dorian’s mouth twitches up into a smile, but neither of them has forgotten that today was a day for bringing a desperate victim to justice, and exonerating and validating a known criminal who’d had enough money to buy his freedom when he was alive. John could struggle away from Dorian, but he just closes his eyes, face twisted in discontent.

Outside, sirens scream past the bar; Dorian checks in and identifies the unit in pursuit. Someone is speeding, nothing important. Nothing worth worrying about. He closes the connection, and ignores the web of information available to him, resting alongside his thoughts, as easily accessed as a memory.

He pulls John a little closer, puts his lips to John’s ear.

Admits: “I dream.

"Cityscapes of trees, and a cottage by the beach. There’s always someone there in the cottage, but they have no face, and I get the feeling—" Dorian stops, chooses his words carefully. "When I have that dream, I feel certain that it hasn’t happened yet, but it will."

John sighs, and says nothing. But his posture says that he is listening.

"I dream of going on patrol, too, but I think you know what that’s like."

"Heh."

Dorian holds John like that, telling him about his dreams, until John gets too antsy to sit still anymore, and demands his leg back from where they left it on the floor. It’s as he’s fiddling with it, reattaching it with a sucking click to his stump, that John looks searchingly Dorian’s way, says,

"You gonna sleep okay tonight?" Dorian gives John a hand to help him stand back up, and answers with a wry grin. John snorts. "Yeah. Me neither."


End file.
